


Opportune

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Classroom Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Under-Desk Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-21 04:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9531338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "But Spirit’s never been very good at analyzing things halfway through, and so it’s come to this: the sound of the classroom door opening to let in each new arrival, Stein’s voice offering level greeting to each student as they come in, and Spirit breathing as quietly as he can in the shadows underneath Stein’s desk at the front of the room." Neither Stein nor Spirit is very good at resisting temptation, but they're great at seizing opportunity.





	

This was a _terrible_ idea.

Spirit can admit that to himself now. He’s not even sure whose idea it was in the first place, if it was one of his half-teasing suggestions or the truly obscene ideas Stein has a habit of delivering with such a monotone Spirit’s opening his mouth to complain before he actually has time to process the words and the rush of heat that comes with them. It doesn’t make much of a difference, anyway; even if this was all his own invention, there must have been a point when he should have realized the error of his imagination, when he ought to have balked at the actual reality of the situation. But he’s never been very good at analyzing things halfway through, and so it’s come to this: the sound of the classroom door opening to let in each new arrival, Stein’s voice offering level greeting to each student as they come in, and Spirit breathing as quietly as he can in the shadows underneath Stein’s desk at the front of the room.

It had been a tempting suggestion. Stein’s in classes all day, now, occupied from the moment he arrives at the Academy until well after Spirit himself is free to go home; Spirit’s lucky if he can claim a few minutes of the other man’s time over the course of the day, and he always has to make the most of them when they arrive. Today that meant slipping through the classroom door in the ten-minute break between classes, and leaning in to kiss against the back of Stein’s neck where he was bent over the papers on his desk, and from there it seems only reasonable to progress to kissing, and touching, and maybe Stein’s fingers ended up curling into Spirit’s tie and maybe Spirit’s hands ended up tracing the outline of scars under Stein’s shirt but that _still_ doesn’t provide enough excuse to get Spirit out of the current situation, should he be caught.

“Fuck,” Spirit breathes, so softly he can barely hear it himself and surely no one else can. The desk at the front of the room continues all the way down to the floor; at least the weight of the furniture itself gives him some measure of cover, he’s unlikely to be seen directly that way. But it’s hardly deep enough to hide all of him, Spirit’s only barely managing to fit himself under the cover of the sides and out of sight, and with Stein leaning forward over the surface to provide extra cover the space beneath the desk is very cramped indeed. Spirit had been charmed by the recklessness out hiding out for the span of a class, thrilled by the risk of getting caught in the compromising-at-best situation he’s deliberately placed himself in; but now, with the murmur of an actual class on the other side of the desk covering him, he’s not at all sure the thrill is worth the danger.

“Alright,” Stein says, his voice pitched so loud and clear that Spirit startles with it even before the other claps his hands twice to urge the room to silence. “Let’s get things started, shall we?” He sounds calm, as perfectly composed as Spirit has ever heard him; it’s very nearly insulting, under the circumstances, how totally unruffled Stein seems to be by Spirit’s covert presence. “First things first. Does anyone have any questions about last week’s assigned homework?”

Spirit can feel his face heating. It’s somehow worse even than his own self-inflicted self-consciousness, to have Stein so thoroughly ignoring him in favor of continuing with class over the top of his head as if he’s not even there. Not that Spirit _wants_ to get caught, and certainly the best way to keep them from discovery is for Stein to act as ordinary as possible; but it would be nice for him to sound at least a _little_ bit tense, would be satisfying for him to give in to a nervous shift or awkward cough instead of continuing on in that same flat, nearly bored monotone he always has. Spirit certainly feels nothing like calm -- his heart won’t stop racing, his hands won’t stop shaking. His spine is prickling with adrenaline, his stomach fluttering into nerves; and on top of it all, as if to pile insult upon injury, he’s painfully, embarrassingly hard against the inside of his slacks.

His arousal _ought_ to have faded, Spirit tells himself with a desperation that unfortunately has no effect at all on the heat spilling through his veins. He’s hardly enjoying his awkward position, and Stein hasn’t made the least motion to take advantage of the situation as he might be able to. Spirit isn’t such an adrenaline addict that the risk of the situation alone could keep him so radiantly wanting; but evidence seems to be standing in the way of his preferred self-perception, and continues to in spite of his best attempts to cool the flush in his veins. Over his head Stein is still talking to the room in that bored, flat tone, working through the intricacies of one of the assigned homework problems with an ease that makes the challenge the assignment presents seem trivial; and Spirit is breathing so hard on heat he thinks he could press a palm against the front of his slacks and push himself over the edge into pleasure in a matter of a few clumsy motions.

It’s not fair. It doesn’t matter whose idea this was; it’s not fair that Spirit should be so frantic and so unsatisfied at once while Stein suffers nothing more inconvenient than a loss of some knee space for the duration of the lesson. It was Stein who had traced his fingers in underneath the fall of Spirit’s hair, Stein who had curled the weight of the other’s tie around his wrist and smiled in that lopsided way that always makes Spirit’s blood rush hotter in his veins; if Spirit’s going to feel the struggle of waiting through the length of the class period, he’s going to make very certain Stein feels the strain too.

It’s easy to fit his touch in against the inside of Stein’s knees. The other’s legs are angled wider than usual to allow space for Spirit to fit between them; Stein’s knees are pressing against the sides of the desk blocking the other from view, his legs spread as wide apart as they will go. The inside seam of his pants runs in a smooth line up the side of his calf and against the inside of his thigh; Spirit weights his fingertips to it, pressing against the texture and tracing it up along the dark of the fabric as he proceeds up Stein’s leg. The cloth is heavy under his touch, he’s not sure how much of the force of his fingertips is lost to the pants themselves; so he slides his hands up over the tops of Stein’s legs too, wrapping his fingers to brace against the other man’s thighs as he digs his thumbs in hard to slide up against the line of that seam. Stein’s still speaking, his voice as wholly unaffected as if he hasn’t even noticed what Spirit is doing; but his legs are tense under the other’s hands, his thighs flexing very slightly with each upward inch Spirit gains. It makes Spirit grin, satisfies some of the desire fitting against the back of his thoughts; and he keeps going, urging his thumbs in higher as his hands slip up towards Stein’s hips instead of his knees.

He just means to tease. That’s all he was ever intending to do; they never have enough time to get to anything more in the gaps between classes, and even with Stein’s remembered smirk urging him to recklessness Spirit never really expected to do anything more than trail his touch up against the other’s legs in an attempt to offer ticklish distraction from the class he’s meant to be teaching. But Stein’s voice doesn’t waver, Stein’s position doesn’t shift, and even as his legs flex tighter under Spirit’s sliding palms there’s none of that satisfaction that would come with a crack in his composure, with a break in the calm monotone of the words he’s offering to the class just on the other side of the desk. Spirit glances up from under the edge of the furniture; he can’t see Stein’s face, can’t make out the details of the other’s expression, but he can see the shift of the other’s throat working over his speech, can see the tension against the high collar of his usual knit shirt. Spirit’s focus holds to that flicker of tension, his attention clinging to the hum of sound under Stein’s skin, and it’s while he’s staring that his hands slide up higher and his fingers press in close against the front of Stein’s pants.

Stein is _far_ less composed than he sounds. He sounds cool, calm, collected, as if there’s nothing that could possibly ruffle him out of the track his lecture has taken now that he’s started it; but under Spirit’s touch he’s hot, radiant in a way that sends a shudder down the whole of Spirit’s spine and threatens his lips with a groan too loud to allow him to remain hidden as he is. He has to press his lips close together on the sound, has to swallow to fight back the knot of sudden want in his throat; there’s something fundamentally different in Stein’s tone, Spirit thinks, once he knows that the distant weight of the other’s words is coming so thoroughly at odds with the heat of his body pressing hard to Spirit’s palm. Spirit weights his hand in against the front of the other’s pants, grinds down against the heavy fabric with careful intention; and in front of him Stein shifts, just slightly, rocking himself forward by a half-inch against the precarious balance of his preferred chair. It’s a tiny motion, Spirit is certain it goes unnoticed by the classroom of students and probably wouldn’t even be noticeable to someone standing right in front of the desk; but from his position it’s as good as a suggestion, as good as an order, and Spirit has always been good at following Stein’s lead.

It’s just touching, at first. Spirit’s cramped into his position in the shadows of the desk, with his knees pressed tight under him and his balance only barely sustained by his hold at Stein’s legs; he doesn’t intend to try anything more inventive than grinding his palm against Stein’s length through the weight of his pants, doesn’t have any plan beyond keeping Stein as flushed with heat as Spirit is himself just by the strain of the situation. But Spirit is only just finding a rhythm to his movement, only just settling himself into a pattern of action, when Stein shifts again, more dramatically this time, and when he moves it’s to let his hand slide off the edge of the desk and down to his lap.

It’s a casual motion, Spirit thinks. He’s fairly sure it would be utterly unremarkable were he on the other side of the desk, if he were sitting in one of the arcs of chairs that form the layout of an amphitheatre around the room. But he’s on this side of the desk, pressed tight into the narrow space and with nothing to see but Stein’s knees open in front of him, and from his angle what he sees is Stein’s fingers catching at the fastenings of his pants, and pushing the button loose of the fabric, and Spirit can’t catch his breath for the adrenaline of anticipation that hits him.

This is stupid, he tells himself as Stein eases his zipper down with careful silence, as he lets the fabric go slack so it can surrender to the reach of Spirit’s ready fingers as the other tugs at the open edges to urge the cloth free of skin so pale he can see the tracery of blue veins running under the translucence of it. This might be invisible from the view of the classroom but it will be obvious if anyone comes in the door, an unexpected visitor will see immediately what’s happening; and the thought just burns down the whole of Spirit’s spine in a long shudder of arousal, just parts his lips over a gasp of heat too immediate to be restrained. His hand is sliding in against Stein’s hip, his fingers tensing against pale skin as he works his free hand down under the loosened weight of the other’s clothes; and then he’s drawing Stein’s length free of the burden of fabric over it, and Stein’s fingers are coming out to slide into his hair, and Spirit is ducking in before Stein has to pull to urge him over the gap between them.

Stein tastes like iron, like this, Spirit has always thought: heavy and salty and weighted with all the heat of his body, all the radiant warmth that so rarely makes it to his voice or even to the curve of his lips. But Spirit knows Stein like this, knows him better this way than he thinks he might in any other context, and he’s shutting his eyes in surrender to the warmth against his lips even before Stein’s fingers have yet tightened to curl to a gentle hold at the back of his head and urge him in closer. Over Spirit’s head Stein’s voice is still droning on calmly, still reading out lines from the assigned homework and calling on students in the class to give their answers with greater or less accuracy; but Spirit is hardly listening, now, he has his hand clinging to Stein’s hip and Stein’s fingers stroking a caress through his hair and he’s leaning in closer, pressing himself as near to the heat of the other’s body as he can get to take Stein far back over his tongue. He has to stay quiet, he knows, has to keep his lips gentle to avoid any telltale sounds that might come with the intent of suction or the too-hard drag of friction; but that just makes his movement more deliberate, makes his actions the more rhythmic with the need for silent elegance. Stein’s fingers are stroking through Spirit’s hair, drawing through to the curling ends and back up to urge the strands off the other’s face, to slide the weight of the locks through his hold like he’s savoring the texture of them; and Spirit is moving in sync with that touch, taking his cue from the drag of Stein’s fingers to duck in closer, to draw back slower, to press his tongue in hard against flushed skin and let the heat of Stein’s length fill the whole of his mouth and urge against the very back of his throat.

This is a familiar movement. The angle is strange, the cramped position far from the usual bed-filling sprawl Spirit adopts for this generally; but all the important parts are the same, from the weight of Stein against his lips and tongue and throat to the drag of Stein’s fingers fitting unspoken affection to the fall of Spirit’s hair. Spirit’s eyes are shut, his focus given over entirely to the steady movement of his head, to the slide of his tongue, to the fit of Stein against his mouth, and through his hair Stein’s fingers glide encouragement, silent appreciation that goes wholly unacknowledged in the level weight of his tone as he speaks to the class. Spirit is hardly thinking of the class at all anymore; it’s not the danger that’s keeping him hard, now, it’s the taste of salt on his tongue and the faintly metallic burn against the back of his throat. His heart is speeding, his pulse skipping; but Stein’s hand at his hair is steady, guiding, it sets a smooth rhythm for Spirit to fix his motion by. Distantly Spirit is aware of how inappropriate this is, for Stein to be getting sucked off in the middle of class while still lecturing in that flat tone uninterrupted by the heat Spirit is working over him; but Spirit’s heart is racing too quickly to allow for any true horror at the thought, it just turns itself over into arousal all the greater in his veins. Spirit’s ears are ringing, his heart pounding so hard it’s drowning out the clear sound of conversation from the rest of the classroom; but then Stein’s voice catches, his breathing sticking on the easy shape of a word, and Spirit’s eyes come open at once with the shock of awareness that comes with that tell.

Stein coughs. “Excuse me,” he says, and his voice is flat again, any momentary lapse of composure as thoroughly absent as if it was never there at all; but his fingers are bracing at the back of Spirit’s neck, now, tightening like he’s trying to pull the other in closer, or maybe more like he’s trying to steady himself against the movement of Spirit’s mouth over him.When Spirit looks up he can just see Stein looking out over the class, can see the relaxed ease of his jaw and the bored focus in the gaze behind his glasses; and he can see the tension against the line of Stein’s throat, the flicker of strain there to speak to the other’s reaction even if all the rest of his expression remains wholly composed. Spirit keeps his gaze fixed at that point, watching the motion of Stein working over a deliberate swallow as Spirit slides in closer, as Spirit presses his lips tight to the other’s skin and sucks deliberate pressure over him; and it’s as Spirit’s lips shift back in a slow, drawn-out pull that he sees Stein’s lashes dip and Stein’s mouth tense. It’s only for a moment, a heartbeat’s worth of reaction flickering across the other’s face; Spirit is sure no one else would even notice, suspects no one farther away than he is would even be able to see it. But he’s close enough, and he sees it, and it gives him enough warning to tighten his lips around Stein’s length the moment before the other’s legs tense, and his hips jerk forward a half-inch, and he spills hot across the drag of Spirit’s lips over him. Spirit swallows back the whimper of heat in his throat, and swallows the bitter of Stein coming over his tongue, and against the back of Spirit’s head Stein’s fingers go gentle, stroking down and against the curling ends of the strands as if to offer the appreciation he can’t put to words under the circumstances.

Spirit’s heart is pounding, his breathing rushing hard in his throat; but when he pulls away it’s silently, when he draws back it’s without so much as a rustle of fabric to indicate his motion. Stein draws his touch back from Spirit’s hair with as much care, lifting his hand back to rest against the top of the desk, and Spirit reaches out to pull the other’s clothes back into as much alignment as he can manage as they are. It’s an awkward angle, and he’s not sure Stein escapes without some telltale dishevelment; but the soft of the other’s clothes will show wrinkles far less than the crisp lines of Spirit’s own, and it’s certainly good enough to pass at a casual glance. They’ve done it, Spirit thinks dizzily, he has the taste of Stein bitter at the back of his tongue and his blood racing to fire in his veins and the class is still continuing without any indication that they’ve been caught. Now all he has to do is stay quiet and unobserved for the time remaining in the lecture, and they’ll be -- and Stein shifts his leg, and hooks his foot under Spirit’s knee, and presses the toe of his shoe down against the front of Spirit’s slacks.

Spirit doesn’t make a sound. Spirit stays absolutely, breathlessly quiet, primarily because he locks his lips together and lifts a hand to shove hard against them to catch back the moan that tries to spill up his throat. Stein doesn’t have much maneuverability as it is -- the space is too cramped even if he had more flexibility with his foot, he was never going to be able to achieve more than basic pressure -- but Spirit is so hard he doesn’t think it makes much of a difference anyway. His body curves up to meet the force Stein is offering, his legs flexing hard in a desperate attempt to curve him up off the floor and towards the resistance against him, and there’s no way he’s going to be able to come from this alone but his body doesn’t seem to care, there’s nothing like rational thought anywhere inside the space of his head. It’s more than what he’s getting alone, at least, it’s enough to surge the tension of heat hotter up the curve of his spine; and then Stein’s hand drops off the edge of the table again, and his touch ghosts against Spirit’s jaw, and his palm slides in to fit over Spirit’s hand clasped close over his mouth.

It takes Spirit a moment to understand. He thinks, first, that it’s a warning, a demand for silence more than what Spirit was already effecting on his own; but then Stein’s thumb shifts, his grip slides just under the angle of Spirit’s fingers to urge the other’s hand away, and when Spirit slides his palm back Stein presses in close in exchange to fit his hand against the overheated part of Spirit’s lips. His touch is gentle, delicate and careful and absolutely, completely unmoving; and it leaves Spirit’s hands free, and Spirit realizes what Stein intends.

He can’t believe he’s going to do this. He doesn’t believe it as he reaches down to the front of his slacks, as Stein draws his foot back with the same deliberate care he used in settling it against Spirit’s hips. His mind refuses to believe that he’s about to indulge in this, refuses to accept that he’s actually unfastening his belt, that his fingers are easing down the zipper of his slacks slowly enough to avoid any telltale click of metal. There’s no way, he’s sure, he’s a Death Weapon and he has responsibilities and he’s not about to jerk himself off underneath Stein’s table in the middle of a lecture with the other’s hand to catch the whimper of heat in his throat as he does. But his slacks are coming open, and his fingers are curling around himself, and as Spirit sucks in a breath through his nose Stein’s hand tightens over his mouth, and it would appear that he _is_ doing precisely that after all.

Stein’s hand is hot against Spirit’s mouth. Usually the other runs cool, or at least colder than whatever internal furnace Spirit can usually feel burning under his skin; but even with Spirit’s whole body feeling like a single open flame Stein’s hand is as warm as his lips, as hot as the rush of air that spills and stalls at the other’s skin. Spirit’s hand is moving faster over himself, his heart is pounding harder with every desperate lungful of air he manages; and in the midst of it Stein is steady, is unmoving, is holding onto Spirit with as much certain calm as if it’s the middle of a fight and his touch is the only thing tethering Spirit to reality. The sound of the rest of the room is fading out, Spirit’s awareness of the situation is giving way; there’s just the press of Stein’s hand against his mouth, and the calm stability of the other’s voice carrying more weight in tone than meaning in words, and in the back of Spirit’s head, the crystal-clear awareness: _oh god, I’m going to--_

He comes with a full-body shudder, with his whole self melting into a single long, sustained tremor like a note ringing through the whole of his body. It feels like Resonance, Spirit always thinks, and the more so like this, with Stein’s hand pressed solid and heavy over his mouth to catch the tiny hiccuping inhales that try to spill free from Spirit’s throat. It’s better that way, Spirit thinks, better when he doesn’t have to think about it and doesn’t have to try to hold himself back; he can just shut his eyes, and breathe deep, and let the relief rushing over him spread and ease into radiant pleasure. His heart thuds in his chest, his shoulders curve in towards the support of Stein in front of him; and Stein slides his hand away, lets Spirit’s lips drag across his skin in the outline of a kiss before his fingers draw up and back to settle against the other’s hair once more. Spirit lets his head tip sideways under the weight of the other’s touch, lets himself lean hard against the open angle of Stein’s leg, and in a minute he’ll have to struggle through cleaning himself up and in a minute he’ll go back to worrying about the risk of getting caught, but right now it’s enough to have his head resting at the support of Stein’s leg and Stein’s fingers easing the strands of his hair back behind the curve of his ear.

Stein’s touch speaks better for him than his words ever do.


End file.
